


Pact

by orchidbreezefc



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Canon Compliant, Chapter 5 Spoilers, Gen, not actually terribly shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 06:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12625332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidbreezefc/pseuds/orchidbreezefc
Summary: Two boys, a hydraulic press, and a plan. What could possibly go wrong, in a situation where everything is already deeply, horribly wrong?





	Pact

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't sure whether to tag this as ship, honestly, but it turns out these two have a pretty sizeable Ao3 following, so I figured I'd have more to gain by tagging it than I'd lose. I hope you give it a chance whichever way you stand!
> 
> Working out the clothes thing was difficult because apparently I'm more determined to keep it consistent than the game--did you notice that in the video Kokichi is wearing Kaito’s shirt but in Climax Interference he’s shirtless? What kind of fanservicey bullshit... ~~obviously the real fanservice would have been him wearing Kaito's clothes~~
> 
> Also, maybe I shouldn't have read other fic of this scene right before posting this. Everyone else handled it so well, I wanted to throw away everything I had, even with it basically finished! But finished it is, so I hope you like it anyway.

When the hydraulic press bears down on Momota, he tries not to think of it as a trust exercise. 

Because he doesn’t trust Ouma. Not an inch. Or at least, he’s not supposed to. But here he is, with his life in Ouma’s hands, waiting for the hand signal to confirm his face is out of sight from the camera.

It’s not like he couldn’t roll out of the way though, right? Yeah, that’s right. Never mind the fact that Momota’s risking his life for this plan. Even if he’s going to die anyway, it might be a little sooner if they fail. A little more painful.

Why is he doing this again?

For Maki. That’s right. For everyone; the killing game will end if they do this right, Ouma made a pretty good goddamn case for that. And that may be a trick, but Momota has learned from Shuuichi that sometimes tricks are worth going along with in pursuit of the truth. Even if he doesn’t think the truth is what Ouma really wants out of this.

Momota’s really thinking about rolling the fuck out of there, plan be damned, when the press shudders to a halt and Ouma’s lilting voice calls, “Come out, come ouuut~”

“What about our hand signal?” Momota demands as he carefully leaves his jacket behind— _thank you for your service, jacket, but I won’t need you where I’m going_. 

“Oh, that’s no fun at all. Isn’t the force stop enough? I’d think the giant fucking machine over you ceasing its efforts to smush you to death would be a pretty good signal.” Momota’s out from under the damn thing just in time to see Ouma’s smirk as he touches a finger to his face and says, “And anyway, maybe I meant you should come out in a different sense, ever think about that?”

“Don’t screw around,” Momota snaps. He cannot fucking believe Ouma is still making jokes like that. Doesn’t the poison hurt? Isn’t he...?

“Touchy, touchy. I must have struck a nerve....” Ouma descends the stairs and meets Momota in the middle. Momota’s about to defend himself when movement catches his eye, and he looks down to see Ouma’s hand. It's shaking like a fucking leaf.

Oh.

“Hey, uh,” he says as Ouma fumbles with his bandana, because he ought to say something, right? Being crushed is a painful way to go. And anyway, what if Ouma screams? That would ruin the plan.

The plan. Obviously.

Momota can't believe he's saying this. “Are you sure you want to do this? That's... I mean... poison would be less... I don't want Maki to be the culprit, don't get me wrong, but... maybe we could..."

"Could what?" Having discarded his bandana on the floor, Ouma looks at him with childlike eyes, tilts his head in mock curiosity. "No, really, what could we do? I'd love to hear _your_ genius plan that would trick Monokuma and took you days to hammer out.” He leans down a bit to inspect Momota’s pants. "Have you got another bottle of antidote in there, or are you just happy to see me?"

"Fuck off,” Momota snarls. Ouma leans back off and laughs. He’s intentionally so infuriating, even when he’s dying. Momota never thought he would be on the same fucking ocean as Ouma, let alone in the same boat. 

And yet. Something is fundamentally wrong about letting a guy take that kind of fall for you. “Look, I don't know," he continues, as Ouma finally gets open the last clasp of his jacket with violently-trembling fingers. "It's just... not right."

"The world's not right, kiddo," says Ouma, pressing the goddamn fucking _script_ from inside his clothes into Momota’s hands. He begrudgingly transfers it to his pocket as Ouma continues. "The killing game's not fucking right. Dying alone in the vacuum of space of a virus and fucking poison and a hydraulic goddamn press isn't goddamn right." His voice cracks, and God, Momota has never heard anything so goddamn... not sad, he'd never be sad for Ouma, obviously. But pitiful.

Ouma hears the sound too, and snaps his mouth shut. “We’re running out of time,” he says curtly. “I’m dying, you know.”

“Yeah, well. Join the club.”

Ouma throws his jacket to the side, and God, he's so skinny. He always looked like Gonta could have snapped him in half when they stood next to each other, but with his jacket off it’s hard to believe Ouma could ever come off better in a fight with Momota, sick or not.

It makes the whole thing even more pathetic, and Momota dithers even worse. This is just so wrong. What are you supposed to say to someone when you're going to seal their fate with your own two hands? When the words you choose are the last ones they'll ever hear? It's too much pressure.

Ouma snorts impatiently and actually begins trying to tug off Momota's shirt, like the world's orneriest lover, or something equally horrible that Momota would regret thinking just as much. "Stop that!" Momota squawks, pushing him off. "I can do it--shaky, cold-ass hands...”

“That’s the poison,” Ouma mutters unconvincingly.

Momota ignores him and pulls off his shirt, only to get it off and find Ouma staring at him, real intense, like he's thinking about something. "What?" he asks self-consciously.

“Hm? Oh, I was just thinking. You know, that I really made the right decision choosing you, Momota,” Ouma says, extending a finger over his mouth.

Momota freezes under the slow wave of horror that rolls over him. “Choosing—? You—you didn’t—" He drops the shirt in his hands. "You chose me specifically to do this? You _planned_ to make me the culprit? I’m going to die and—how could--what kind of fucked up—?!”

“Oh, come on, Momota, you’ve got it all wrong,” Ouma says, persuasive as a bear trap. “You should be flattered! A lot of thought went into it. Choosing the person you’re going to die with is a big deal, you know? A death pact buddy isn’t chosen lightly.”

Momota doesn’t know how to respond. He wants to scream and shout. He wants to shove the bastard in there already and slam the damn button and be done with his bullshit. Yet somehow he’s arrested by the sense that Ouma’s trying to tell him something through the usual layer of lies.

But reaching out would be pointless. Ouma's got too many walls up to even begin to wrestle something sincere out of him. Maybe if they'd had more time. Not that Momota would have wanted to spend a moment more with Ouma than he absolutely had to.

"What, you’re not going to try to hit me?" Ouma asks, leaning in through the barrier of Momota’s thoughts, offering his cheek to be punched. "Scared you'll end up on the ground again?"

Any other time, Momota would be furious. But right now he's here, watching a kid die. It would be too depressing to put him on the ground even supposing he could. "No point," he admits begrudgingly. "You'll be dead here in a second anyway."

Ouma leans away again and hums as Momota picks up his shirt and hands it over. Ouma’s hands are still quaking. If Momota looks at him when he’s not spouting some maniacal horseshit, it mostly just looks like he needs to sit down. He seems tired, like he forgot what he was doing or can't quite seem to care how important it is anymore. It doesn’t feel like the person who led Gonta to his death and laughed is somewhere in this pathetic, dying kid.

Something about it puts Momota’s guard back down, even though he should really know better. Ouma’s head snaps up and his eyes go clear and focused as Momota softly lets slip what he told himself he wasn't going to actually ask:

"Are you scared?"

Ouma laughs. It's a weak sound, weak like Momota has felt from the sickness. Ouma shrugs on the shirt; he looks small in Momota’s clothes, but only his arm should be visible anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. Not to anyone but Momota. "Just between you and me?"

"What do you..."

"Because you can't tell anyone about this. It would ruin my reputation, and a man's reputation is all he has."

"Seriously, Ouma, if you don't stop screwing around..."

Ouma finishes adjusting Momota's shirt and looks him dead in the eyes, with the slightest of insincere smiles. "I'm fucking terrified."

Momota's mouth comes open with nothing to say. Ouma lets him hang there, just long enough.

Then he continues. "...Or am I? That could be a lie, too. Maybe I'm happy to be doing this plan! Maybe I'm _excited_. Maybe I've been waiting for something like this for a long time."

"For a long...?" Momota blinks at him, perplexed for a moment. Then he’s honestly kind of pissed off again. What kind of person would say that? What kind of person has such a pathological fucking need to keep you guessing that he would lie about his feelings in the face of his own death? 

"...Whatever. Let's get this show on the road,” Momota mutters. Damn him for being as soft as he is, but he can't help but add, "If you're sure."

"Sure, I'm sure," Ouma replies with forced, or maybe just tired, cheer. "Your precious Harumaki would be in danger otherwise, and we can't have that, now, can we?"

Every part of Momota is primed to be even angrier, but he knows that's just what Ouma wants. He watches him flounce off toward the machine, watches his hand tremors. At this rate he won’t be able to stay still for the video.

"Oh, speaking of your sex life," adds Ouma, climbing in and snuggling inside Momota's jacket like he’s making himself fucking comfortable, "You gotta make sure Saihara gets out of this, 'kay? I mean, _you're_ fucked either way, but if anything happens to that guy, everyone else is fucked too. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

"I'm tired of listening to you," Momota growls, climbing up the stairs.

"Yeah, I’m sure. But really, you prooomiiise?"

Momota looks down at the press. He can barely see Ouma from here, which is, of course, the point. Nobody's ever going to see his face again.

God, crushing would hurt so much.

"Sure, whatever. Not for your sake. But for Shuuichi."

"Good enough. I leave it to you, Kaito Momota, _luminary of the stars_. Don't fuck it up." Ouma gives him a thumbs-up, a fucking thumbs-up, then pulls his arm back within the confines of the press. _It's not too late_ , Momota wants to say, but maybe it is. _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but maybe he isn’t.

In the end, he says nothing. He presses the buttons on the press and the camera, and turns away.


End file.
